Hyde Park
by chasingriver
Summary: A small fic written for some Holmescest fan art on the LiveJournal Holmescest community.


**A/N: Warnings for incest.**

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><p>Mycroft stared at his paperwork and sighed. Another financial crisis, another war – more stacks of paper on his desk. At least most of these didn't require his direct involvement. Work had been so busy lately. There had been no time for external distractions – no time for the Diogenes Club, no time for a lover, no time to do anything other than concentrate on the work. That's what he told himself, at least. The reality, one he knew but rarely acknowledged, was that work held back the blackness that constantly threatened at the edges of his life.<p>

He looked out the window at the grey afternoon light. A steady drizzle soaked the street below.

"Anthea. Could you come in here?"

She walked into the massive office. "Sir?"

"Could you have dinner brought in again tonight, please?"

"Of course, sir. Will you be here over the weekend as well?"

Mycroft sighed. He didn't want to go back to his flat. There were no distractions there.

"Sir, you haven't been home in days…"

"I'm perfectly aware of the last time I was home, Anthea."

"Of course. Sorry, sir." She left the office quietly, not wanting to press the issue. Some things were better left alone.

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><p>Sherlock sat in his small flat. Bored. Lestrade had no cases for him. He'd re-indexed his sock drawer, by fibre content this time. He hated it in Mile End. He had to take the Tube to Barts. It took years. There were too many people. It was unacceptable.<p>

Perhaps it was time to get in touch with Mycroft. They hadn't spoken since Christmas. That had been a disaster. Mummy had insisted they come. Mycroft had holed himself up in the library and refused to come out. Mummy had started drinking before they'd even got there and was passed out long before dinner was ready.

He'd gotten bored and gone to the conservatory to get away from the depressing gloom of the old house. Indulging in a few cigarettes, he'd accidentally set fire to the dead palms. He'd tried to put it out by himself, but Mycroft had come running out of the house. It was the first time in ages he'd looked excited about anything.

By the time the fire had been put out, dinner was cold. Mummy never even heard about it. At some point next summer, she'd probably wonder where the smoke damage came from when she went to check on the orchids.

As the two of them ate their cold dinner, they exchanged pleasantries.

"Still running the British government, Mycroft?"

"Of course. Are you still helping the Yard with their cold cases?"

"Mm. Lestrade is giving me new ones now."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He hadn't been informed of this development. It was time to keep a better eye on his little brother. "You should get a flat closer in, Sherlock. That place in Mile End is a rathole."

"Yes, but nobody minds if I blow things up, and I can't afford anything closer."

"I can get you a better flat, Sherlock."

"I don't want your money, Mycroft."

"What do you want, Sherlock?" Mycroft had reached over and placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

It had shocked him. The Holmes family didn't _do_ affection. The touch had lit up his nerve endings and he'd turned to face his older brother. _I want you to touch me again. _He'd pulled away then, ashamed and confused.

Mycroft pulled away hurriedly. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." He'd bolted down the hallway to the library and locked himself there for the remainder of the visit.

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><p>Mycroft sat in the library, head buried in his hands. <em>What was I thinking? <em>He'd managed to stifle this for years.

The fire this afternoon had been a welcome diversion to the monotony of the annual Christmas Dinner Debacle. He'd wandered outside to find Sherlock, and had been surprised to find him thrashing wildly at flaming palms in the conservatory. He dragged him out of the building, and they found a garden hose to douse the flames.

They stood there, leaning against the metal and glass frame, actually laughing – laughing so hard they could barely stand. He'd looked at his younger brother then, so alive and vibrant, and it was all he could do not to kiss him. _Don't even think about it. It's wrong. It's always been wrong, and always will be, and he would never let it happen anyway. _They'd shared a cigarette, careful not to set anything else ablaze. He'd pushed down his desire and basked in the _normalcy _of it all.

And now, he'd ruined everything. One touch to Sherlock's shoulder, and the look of confusion and horror on Sherlock's face told him all he needed to know.

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><p>Sherlock hadn't expected the fake anthrax threat letter to actually <em>be <em>anthrax. If he had, he wouldn't have lifted it from Lestrade in the first place. As soon as he had it under the microscope, it was obvious. He bolted from the flat with his arm across his mouth and nose.

He sighed. There was no going back in there now. The place would probably have to be condemned.

_Mycroft, I need a new flat. I also need a bio-hazard unit sent to this one. Soon. –SH_

Mycroft heard his phone beep and looked up in surprise. _Sherlock._ His heart raced, even as he sighed at the message.

_Of course. I'll have a car sent for you. –MH_

He arranged to have Sherlock taken to the MI6 decontamination area and given new clothes. He didn't even really want to know what the flat was contaminated with. He was sure it would show up in the report.

_My, I'm sorry about Christmas. –SH_

His head spun, and he felt slightly sick. Sherlock hadn't called him that for years. _I wish I knew what he meant. There are so many things it could mean, and only one thing I want it to mean. _He thought for a long time before he sent a reply.

_I'd like to see you, Sherlock. It's been too long. –My_

He waited anxiously for the message telling him to piss off.

_Yes, it has. –SH_

Mycroft gripped his phone with white knuckles, staring at it. He wasn't sure if he was actually seeing the words, or if he was just imagining them. Perhaps his brain had finally snapped. He looked again. It definitely didn't say 'piss off.'

His heart raced, even while his brain hardly dared consider the possibilities. He glanced around his office, knowing it was under surveillance (for security reasons, always for security reasons).

_After you get decontaminated, have the car drop you at the Albion Gate at Hyde Park. I'll meet you there. –My_

He grabbed his brolly and strode out of the office, surprising Anthea.

"Sir?"

"I'll be out for the afternoon, A."

"Of course, sir. Have a nice weekend."

He smiled without answering and strode down the hall. He knew he'd be early, but he didn't care. _Sherlock wants to see me. _It would be good to get some fresh air. He stepped out onto the pavement. Even the drizzle felt good against his skin. The car dropped him off by the entrance to the park and silently slid back off into the London traffic. It would be back when he needed it.

He made his way into the park and took up residence on one of the benches. He sat there, letting the drizzle soak into him. It was bringing him back to life after prolonged desiccation – prolonged separation from his brother.

A car stopped on the road behind him. He heard the door close. He got up from the bench, raised his brolly, and turned towards the entrance. Sherlock strode towards him, his steps confident but his eyes full of trepidation.

They met in a tight embrace underneath the umbrella. They were both trembling.

"I want it too, My."

They pulled back from each other and Mycroft looked into his little brother's astonishingly beautiful eyes. Then, under the protection and privacy of the umbrella, they finally kissed.

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><p><strong>AN:** This was written for fan art on the Holmescest community on Livejournal. The wonderful artist is cosom at deviantart. You can find the art at holmescest dot livejournal dot com slash 4078 dot html.


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